Thou one fair shrub, O, shed thy flowers,
And stir not in the gale!

For thus to see thee nodding in the air,

To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend,

Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear."

The Man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know
Such happiness as I have known to day.

Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count !
Blest was I then all bliss above!

Now, for that consecrated fount

Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell?

A comfortless and hidden well.

I trust it is,- - and never dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.

Such change, and at the very door Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

LET other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect thing:
Rejoice that thou art not!

Heed not though none should call thee fair;

So, Mary, let it be

If naught in loveliness compare

With what thou art to me.

True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
Whose veil is unremoved

Till heart with heart in concord beats,

And the lover is beloved.

XVI.

YES! thou art fair, yet be not moved
To scorn the declaration,

That sometimes I in thee have loved
My fancy's own creation.

Imagination needs must stir;

Dear Maid, this truth believe, Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

Be pleased that Nature made thee fit
To feed my heart's devotion,
By laws to which all forms submit,
In sky, air, earth, and ocean.

1824.

XVII.

How rich that forehead's calm expanse! How bright that heaven-directed glance! -Waft her to glory, wingèd Powers, Ere sorrow be renewed,

And intercourse with mortal hours
Bring back a humbler mood!

So looked Cecilia when she drew
An angel from his station;

So looked; not ceasing to pursue
Her tuneful adoration!

But hand and voice alike are still;
No sound here sweeps away the will
That gave it birth: in service meek,
One upright arm sustains the cheek,
And one across the bosom lies

That rose, and now forgets to rise,
Subdued by breathless harmonies
Of meditative feeling;

Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies,
Through the pure light of female eyes,
Their sanctity revealing!

XVIII.

WHAT heavenly smiles! O Lady mine,
Through my very heart they shine;
And, if my brow gives back their light,
Do thou look gladly on the sight;
As the clear Moon with modest pride
Beholds her own bright beams
Reflected from the mountain's side

And from the headlong streams.

1824.

то

XIX.

O DEARER far than light and life are dear,
Full oft our human foresight I deplore;
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no
more!

Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control,
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest;
While all the future, for thy purer soul,
With "sober certainties" of love is blest.

That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear,
Tells that these words thy humbleness offend;
Yet bear me up, ·
else faltering in the rear
Of a steep march: support me to the end.

Peace settles where the intellect is meek,

And Love is dutiful in thought and deed;

Through Thee communion with that Love I seek: The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the

Creed.